


Layers, Part Six

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-11-03
Updated: 1999-11-03
Packaged: 2018-11-10 13:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11128248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: What is it with these guys and their damsels in distress?This story is a sequel toLayers, Part Five.





	Layers, Part Six

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).
    
    
    Layers, Part Six
    
    by Bone
    
    October 1999
    
    Disclaimers:  The due South characters belong to Alliance Atlantis. Written
    for pleasure, not profit. For adult readers only, please. Many thanks
    to Aristide, Dawn P and Crysothemis for beta-reading and encouragement.
    Comments are welcomed at
    
    Notes: This is the sixth story in the "Layers" series.  Layers 1 - 5
    can all be found at the Due South Fiction Archive: http://www.hexwood.com/dsa/.
    This particular excursion isn't as explicit as some of the others; it
    explores more mind and less body. ;) 
    
    Pairing:  Fraser/Kowalski
    
    Rating: NC-17 for language and sexual content.
    
    Spoilers:  "Odds" and "A Likely Story"
    
    Summary:   What is it with these guys and their damsels in distress?
    
    ***************************************
    
    We're suckers. 
    
    Not in that good nasty way, either. I'm not talking about sucking like
    that, or even in the "you suck" Bart Simpson way. I'm talking about being
    taken in, being conned, being *suckered*. We're *suckers*. 
    
    Worse than that, we're saps. Got this damsel-in-distress button, both
    of us do. Show us a lady who looks like she might be in some trouble,
    looks like she could use a little rescuing, and -- wham, bam, after you,
    ma'am -- we're goners, down like ten pins. We haven't got a lick of sense
    between us. 
    
    I'm not gonna try to lie about it: I got my head turned by Luanne. She
    opened that door and I slid right on in. Boy, I can pick 'em, can't I?
    So she didn't do the Big Bad Thing I thought she'd done; she wasn't exactly
    99.44 percent pure, either, now was she? I mean, who makes forty-eight
    grand a year reading books out loud? That's a good gig, right there.
    Maybe I could get me one of those jobs. 
    
    She snowed me good, got me all bunched up; yeah, she was a smooth one,
    all right. She was a con. A pro and a con. She was living on the edge,
    the fringe, taking what she could where she could get it. So what'd I
    do? Fringed right along with her. Fell for that dizzy thing she did and
    *kissed* her. I admit it, I admit it, I wasn't thinking too clearly.
    That happens, sometimes. 
    
    Now, I know I don't have any sense, but I expected better of Fraser.
    
    I'm not sure what his excuse was. At least we had to do some digging
    to get the goods on Luanne. But Lady Shoes...no, Lady Shoes we knew was
    crooked from the get go. Queer as a three-dollar bill. That was the whole
    point -- she'd let us in on her crook and we'd get some bigger fish.
    
    Yeah, well, the only thing she reeled in was Fraser.
    
    Shit, yes, I was jealous. Had that little green man climbing right up
    my back. Wouldn't you? Walked in the Consulate and there she was, in
    his underwear. Hell, I hardly ever get to *see* him in those long-johns,
    let alone *wear* them. There they were, just the two of them, all by
    their lonesome, and he was peeled down to his undershirt, looking all
    flustered, and she was cool as a cucumber, looking like God made her
    for long-johns. I asked him if he knew what the hell he was doing. He
    played it all innocent, all, "What is it you think I'm doing?" 
    
    Do I look like a chump? Don't answer that.
    
    He wanted to protect her, so, what the hell, I did my part. Tried to
    get him to cough up what was making his head spin so much he had to stick
    his face in cold water, but you know Fraser -- he's a clam when he wants
    to be. Oh, yeah, she got to him. Got to him good. Got to him north and
    south, I think. 
    
    He's got a thing for them. Women living on the wrong side of the law,
    I mean. We all know this isn't the first time he's put himself out for
    somebody who looks better in his jammies than he does. Not much point
    in trying to change his mind, though. Once he's gone and decided something,
    that's it, it's decided. About all I could do was damage control. 
    
    So that's how come I found myself outside the Big Game with the Fibbees
    and the SWATters, telling somebody to do something, sometime today, sometime
    this *year* already, and then having to go on and do it myself. Wait
    for those assholes and you'll be setting down roots and putting out fruit
    before they decide oh, okay boys, let's move 'em on out. Honestly. Makes
    me glad I don't get a federal paycheck. 
    
    Did I mention Fraser looks damn good in a tuxedo? All unlike his usual
    self. Slicked up, sharp. James Bond, only maybe not so smooth. (Cider?
    Yeah, right.) I like how he looks, no matter what he throws on. Looks
    good in the uniform. Looks good without it. But the tux... I've gotta
    say, the tux blew my hair right back. 
    
    I sort of get why he thought he had to go through with it. He had an
    in; he used it. I'd like to think it was that simple, but way down in
    the bottom of my lungs, I think he got a little hooked. I don't think
    it was all about the bust. I think he *knew* he was being suckered, but
    let it happen anyway. 
    
    Fraser's like that. 
    
    I think sometimes he enjoys it.
    
    Not that he's got a... what do you call it... martyr complex or anything,
    but it's like he's got to give people all these benefits of the doubt,
    way beyond what most people would. Even Luanne. I'm there pitching a
    hissy over her record, and he's telling me that's what she *was*, that
    she might not be that *now*, even though I know I was pissing him off,
    getting tangled up with her like that, getting stupid over her. 
    
    We're saps and we're stupid. 
    
    The crazy thing is, none of it, neither of them, seemed to have anything
    to do with Fraser and me, and what we were doing when we weren't getting
    tongue-tied and rattled over these... *women*... 
    
    Tongue-tied, rattled, and this time around, we both managed to hurt ourselves.
    And for what? So Frannie could get a dog? So the Feds could get their
    hands on some guy I never even heard of before, and don't care about?
    So Fraser could get his Happy Helper merit badge for the day? 
    
    I'm over-simplifying. I know I am. I think Fraser's got some stuff lurking
    under that placid look he wears for company; some dark, weird stuff that
    makes him like he is, makes him do the things he does. If he wants to
    work out some demons on a shark in his underwear, that's fine with me.
    He kept me in the loop pretty much, this time, so I'm not whining. Not
    much, anyway. I must've landed wrong coming through that skylight, because
    Fraser and I've got matching sore backs. Same exact spot, too. I think
    I bonked mine on the card table. He's still nursing his from before.
    I'm just hoping the bad guys take the rest of the night off -- about
    all we're good for is playing cards. 
    
    Feels good, sitting here, nobody else around, playing poker with Fraser
    for air. We both know how much air's worth -- a lot, a whole lot, priceless
    you could even say. I'll honor my wager all right. I'll honor it all
    over his body, soon as I can move without feeling like somebody hit me
    with a brick. 
    
    Feels good, yammering about nothing, arguing like we do. It's good. It's
    good that people like Luanne and Denny Scarpa can wander onto our radar,
    get the periscope up, then just move on, ships in the night or whatever.
    It's not the periscope coming up that I've got a problem with. No, the
    periscope's not always responsible for what it comes up for, if you take
    my meaning. Sometimes the periscope just goes... up. 
    
    It's his head I worry about sometimes. What he gets into his head, and
    how crazy stubborn he can be about it. He *knew* she was messing with
    his head, had to know, but he just kept on keeping on. 
    
    Guess that's what makes Fraser *Fraser*. Guess I can either learn to
    live with it, or learn to live without him, and *that's* not going to
    happen, not while there's still air to share, so maybe I'll try peeking
    in that head of his, try peeling something besides the clothes off his
    body. 
    
    "You 'bout cleaned me out of air here, Fraser," I tell him. I can see
    how much he's squirming around in that chair, and my back's none too
    happy sitting, either. Nice as it is, calm and quiet like this, looks
    like we'd better pack it in, call it a night. 
    
    "Yes, I'm running a bit short myself," he says, stretching his arms over
    his head. 
    
    "How's the back?" I ask him.
    
    "Sore. Yours?" He grimaces when he tries to stand up.
    
    "Sore," I tell him, pushing myself up with a hand on the desk. I take
    hold of his biceps and give him a tug and he's up, close there in front
    of me, where I can smell the starch in his shirt, smell the cologne Huey
    gave him to put on. Under those strange, other-guy smells, though, I
    can still smell Fraser, good clean Fraser smell, like it comes straight
    off his skin. He steadies himself with his hands on my shoulders, and
    holds tight, his thumbs notched on my collarbone. 
    
    "Ray," he says, and he's leaning in.
    
    Whoa, hey, whoa there, my friend. Not a good idea, not at the station.
    He knows that. He's just tired, and sore, and hurting a little on the
    inside, I think. I firm up my grip on his arms, turn him so I can get
    an arm around his shoulders. That'll look all right, if anyone's looking,
    which I don't think they are, but this is definitely a case of better
    safe than sorry. 
    
    "Let's go, Fraser," I tell him, rubbing my hand down his back where nobody
    can see, even if they were looking, which I keep telling myself they're
    not. 
    
    "I'm sorry, Ray. I didn't...I wasn't..." He's fumbling for words. Hey,
    better here and now than there and before. He was smooth as butter in
    there, trolling along, talking, talking, like he knew just where he was
    going and how to get there. 
    
    And he was counting on me to be there for him when it all went down.
    I'd have taken them on myself -- thought I *was*, when I dropped through
    the ceiling. Didn't matter. I'm not saying I didn't appreciate all that
    back-up in blue, but between me and Fraser and the old element of surprise,
    I think we could've taken them by ourselves. 
    
    Now we'd be lucky to land a good punch between us. We're moving like
    we're eighty. Couple of old men, leaning on each other. Dief and Ante
    follow without being told. Maybe she's a good influence on him. Or maybe
    they've had enough excitement for one day, too. 
    
    "Don't think you oughta be sleeping on a cot, Fraser," I tell him once
    we're settled in the GTO. Took an embarrassing amount of time to fold
    myself into the car. We should probably have kept moving around a little;
    we stiffened right up there playing cards. 
    
    "No, I think you're right. The floor will suffice for tonight," he says.
    
    The floor? I was wrong. He *does* have a martyr complex. 
    
    "How you gonna get up?" I ask him.
    
    "Well, Constable Turnbull will be in at eight. I'm sure he won't mind
    giving me a hand," he says. 
    
    "What if you gotta go in the middle of the night?" Seems like a fair
    question. 
    
    "Where would I need to go, Ray?" 
    
    "*Go*, Fraser. What if you have to pee?" Geez louise, it's time the man
    got some sleep. 
    
    "Well..."
    
    Aha. Gotcha there, Fraser.
    
    "Just come home with me, okay? We can be the blind leading the blind
    or whatever, and if Thatcher has a conniption over you staying out all
    night, I'll get her off your back," I tell him. 
    
    Guess he really is tired, because he just puts his head back on the seat
    and says those three little words I love to hear: 
    
    "All right, Ray."
    
    ***************************************
    
    I give him some Advil and make him take a shower; tell him to just stand
    there and let the water hit him right where it hurts, and then I go into
    the kitchen and read the ingredients on all my soup cans to stop myself
    from picturing him there -- wet, naked, and maybe even bent over in my
    shower. He's probably leaning with his hands on the wall, and his legs
    spread, and... I'm not thinking about this. I'm not. Not. Not. Not. Not
    thinking about how good that water must feel, how his skin's probably
    turning red under it, how his ass... 
    
    Fuck. Soup cans or not, my dick's twitching and my fingers are itching,
    but I think we'd probably strain something important if we tried to do
    anything about it, and the last thing we need is a 911 call from the
    shower. 
    
    ("I've screwed my partner, and I can't get up. I'm up, but I can't get...
    oh, hell, you know what I mean. Get over here. Bring a crane.") 
    
    I can control myself, and even if I couldn't, one experimental thrust
    toward the counter makes me see stars, so mostly I want him out of my
    shower, dry, and in bed, and then I can have my turn at the hot water
    miracle cure. 
    
    The water's still running when I head back to my room, so I go stand
    in the bathroom doorway and call out to him. "Need help?" 
    
    "No, thank you. I'll be out shortly," he says back. 
    
    Okay, fine. Probably better that way. Better if I just stay out here
    while he's in there. Less chance he'll slip and fall on my dick. 
    
    He looks a little ragged when he comes out. His skin's bright pink in
    splotches, like he ran the shower too hot. He's got a towel around his
    hips and he's leaning on the doorframe, like it hurts to move. Poor guy.
    He's not used to being anything less than a hundred percent. He's probably
    one of those guys who has to be delirious, with a fever of 106 or something,
    before he'll admit he's sick. Getting side-lined by a sore back probably
    pisses him off good. 
    
    "Stiffen up a little?" I ask him.
    
    He flashes me this incredulous look and pulls the towel tighter around
    his waist. 
    
    Oops. 
    
    "I didn't mean it like *that*, Fraser," I say. "Geez, give me some credit,
    will you?" 
    
    He smiles a little at that, ducks his head, clears his throat. "I did,
    actually. But I think... that is, the spirit may be willing, but I fear
    the flesh is weak." 
    
    For those of you not versed in Fraserspeak, that means, yeah, he would
    if he could, but he can't, so he won't. 
    
    "Don't worry, Fraser. I couldn't jump you if I wanted to. Um... wait...
    I mean, I do want to, but I'm not *going* to," I stutter out at him.
    Look, you try being this close to an all-but-naked Mountie and see how
    *you* do. 
    
    He's still just hovering in the bathroom doorway, like he's not sure
    what to do next. Oh, yeah, we haven't really done this before, this sleeping
    over thing, not since the motel in Green Bay, and that was easy, that
    was just any old motel. This is my place, my room, my bed. Usually we
    do our horizontal mambo and then he heads back to the consulate. Sleeping
    over just to sleep... maybe that's got whole other meanings up in Canada,
    how would I know? 
    
    "You want something to sleep in?" I offer. "Boxers or something?" 
    
    "If you don't mind," he says.
    
    I don't mind.  
    
    Fifteen minutes later -- I'd have stayed in the shower even longer, but,
    like Fraser, I was starting to stiffen up -- we're sacked out. Took some
    groans and a few false starts to get horizontal, but we managed it, and
    the bed feels better than I even imagined it would. We're staring up
    at the ceiling, and if he's like me, he can feel a pulse pounding away
    in every muscle in his body. It's the first time I've thought maybe I'm
    getting too old for this shit. Me and Murtaugh. Too old to be dropping
    through skylights. And Fraser's too old to be hopping out of windows
    without looking. 
    
    What was he thinking?
    
    He'd probably already got his first look at Lady Shoes, wanted to impress
    her with his Mountie prowess or something. 
    
    Serves us both right to be here, all alone, under the sheets, and be
    too freaking sore to do anything more but paw at each other. 
    
    "You need anything, you'll have to yell," I tell him. "I sleep deep."
    
    "I'm sure I'll be fine," he says.
    
    "'Night, Fraser," I say, patting his stomach, not because I planned it
    that way, but because that's where my hand fell when I threw it out.
    
    "Good night, Ray," he says, putting his hand over mine, holding it there.
    
    It's not quite like getting down and dirty, but it feels damn good just
    the same. 
    
    ***************************************
    
    You'd think, after the last few days we've had, that we'd drop right
    off, wouldn't you? I know I'm wrecked, and I only took one kind of fall
    -- he took a whole bunch of different ones. 
    
    But he's not sleeping, either.
    
    We're just lying here, staring up at the ceiling, watching the ceiling
    fan go around and around and around. 
    
    Staring and thinking, and yeah, he's still got my hand in his. Feels
    nice, holding hands. Now I'm not saying I'm ready to walk down Michigan
    Ave hand-in-hand, but here, in the dark, it feels... nice. He doesn't
    strike me as somebody who really *needs* someone to hold his hand, but
    if it makes him feel good, it makes me feel good, so I'm not making a
    peep. 
    
    Wish I had a light or something I could shine in his ear and read what
    he's thinking. Sometimes I figure it out. I ask the right questions and
    he feels honor bound to answer. But sometimes I just know I'm not getting
    the whole story, like today, and nothing I say or do can make him spill
    it. 
    
    I don't get him. 
    
    I know that's not news, but I'm really struggling with this one. I told
    him he takes people at face value, but that's not quite it. It's like
    he sees beyond the face, looking for the value, if that makes sense.
    He looks way deeper than most of us would, looking for something in there
    that's worth saving, worth putting himself out for. 
    
    With Lady Shoes, it was the brother thing. Whatever she lied about, whatever
    rotten stuff she'd done, she had something good in her, too, and that's
    what he sees, what he latches onto. I think sometimes that's all he sees,
    but maybe I'm not giving him enough credit. 
    
    Maybe it just doesn't matter to him. Maybe he can sift out the bad and
    just look at the good. It's a good trick, if he can do it. 
    
    Now that I think about it, he does the same thing with me, does it all
    the time. Did it almost from the start, once he got over making me chomp
    window putty or whatever that was. It's like he can't stand for me to
    think bad of myself. That day in the cemetery? I was about at the end
    of my rope, and he tied a knot for me to hang onto. 
    
    I wonder if it makes it better or worse for him, that seeing inside people
    thing he does. I guess most people probably disappoint him, eventually.
    Be kind of hard to live up to a Fraser standard, even if that's not what
    he'd call it. I'm sure I don't meet his expectations much, but that doesn't
    stop me from *wanting* to. He gets to you that way. 
    
    As much as she got to him, I wonder if he got to her. If she had any
    clue what it meant to have a Mountie in her corner. Wonder if she appreciated
    what he'd done, or if he was just one more stool pigeon in her cage.
    We'll probably never know. She's a pretty cool customer. 
    
    Forgive me if I'm just this little bit satisfied that she's cooling her
    heels in a holding cell somewhere, waiting for transfer, and I'm the
    one in bed with Fraser. Petty, you say? Hell, yes, and proud of it. 
    
    I can hear him breathing beside me. It's a good sound. I could get used
    to that sound. Probably better not to push it, though. We get away with
    enough as it is without moving in together. Sure would make mornings
    easy, though. No more driving by the Consulate to pick him up. No more
    late night trips back for him. Something to think about, when we're not
    so tired, not so sore. Nights like this, you sometimes say stuff you
    don't mean to, just because you're low and the walls are all down. 
    
    "Ray, can I ask you something?" he whispers.
    
    See what I mean? He had all that time to talk to me, but he had to wind
    down first, had to get sleepy and unstrung a little. 
    
    "Sure," I whisper back.
    
    He picks up my hand in his and fits our palms together, measures our
    fingers. Mine are longer, his are thicker, but we fit good. 
    
    "If I lie to a liar, am I any better than she is?"
    
    Oh, shit, he's going philosophical on me. 
    
    "Um, Fraser, you're better than most people," I say, hoping it's good
    enough, but knowing it's probably not. 
    
    "I'm serious. How am I any different? She lied to protect herself, and
    because she wanted what she perceived as justice. My lies were less noble
    than that," he says, and I hear his voice wobble at the end. 
    
    God, I hate when it does that.
    
    I gather my strength up and roll onto my side, facing him. He's got the
    covers pushed to his waist, and his skin's just a few shades darker than
    the sheets. 
    
    "You think it would've been better if she'd gone ahead and killed Farah?
    Then she'd be looking at murder one," I remind him. 
    
    He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I just... thought she should
    have someone she could trust. I told her she could trust me." 
    
    "Fraser, Fraser, God, what's it take? In every way that counts, she could
    trust you. You didn't screw her over, you didn't let her mess up her
    life any more than it already was, you figured out what was going on,
    and you did the right thing. You can't ask for more than that," I say.
    
    What a speech, huh. But I mean every word of it. 
    
    "Look," I tell him. "I know she got to you, okay? You'd have to be dead
    for a chick like that not to get to you." 
    
    "She didn't get to you," he points out. "You saw through her right away."
    
    "Yeah, well...I know her type," I say, turning my hand over so I can
    rub his chest. That makes him turn to look at me. "And I know *you*."
    
    "You're not upset," he says, just a fact, not a question.
    
    "About you losing your head a little for Ante's mom? Nah. I saw that
    one coming a mile away." 
    
    "Am I so predictable?" he asks.
    
    "Pretty much," I tell him.
    
    He frowns at me, and I swear, his lower lip pooks out. Fraser, pouting?
    That's a new one. 
    
    "It's not a bad thing, Fraser," I say, patting him. "It's just one of
    those... things you do, like licking stuff and holding doors open and
    telling weird stories." 
    
    He says, "Pull," and when I do, he uses our linked hands for leverage
    and rolls onto his side. Now we're like we were on the blanket out there
    by the lake that first night, only we've come a long, long way since
    then. For example, I've got nothing on, and he's wearing my boxer shorts,
    and we're sort of holding hands, in a guy kind of way. 
    
    "And you can just accept that? About me, that is?" he asks.
    
    That surprises him? Yeah, that surprises him. 
    
    "Come on, Fraser. I know I do stuff that bugs you. I swear a lot, and
    beat up people sometimes, and I'm not smart like you, don't know stuff
    like you do, but you're not pushing me out of bed for it, are you?" 
    
    "Well, no, Ray, of course not," he says, like he can't even imagine people
    who would do that. Like Stella, for example. 
    
    "All right then. So, why would I?" 
    
    I watch him thinking that over, running it through his brain, seeing
    if it computes. 
    
    "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me," he finally
    says. 
    
    "Huh?" Okay, that's not the most coherent thing I ever said, but it's
    late, and I'm tired, and it sounds like maybe we're just getting started.
    
    "I have a tendency," he starts, then stops. "No, more than a tendency.
    Perhaps habit would be a better word. I have a habit -" 
    
     "-- of taking too damn long to say everything," I finish for him. "Just
    *say* it, Fraser." 
    
    "It's really more of a flaw, a weakness," he says, and he's so earnest
    it makes my heart kick. 
    
    Fraser, flawed? Then God help us all. I wasn't kidding before, wasn't
    trying to blow sunshine up his ass. He *is* better than most of us. Doesn't
    mean he's got to be perfect, though. I know what he's going to say. He's
    thinking of that evil witch, what was her name again? Victoria. Victoria
    Metcalf. 
    
    She makes Miz Shoes look like Mary Poppins. Hell, I'd have been happy
    to send him off with Denny Scarpa if it would've meant he hadn't had
    to deal with *that* psycho. 
    
    "Fraser, you don't have to... I mean, I know about that Victoria bit...
    person. I read it when I was learning Vecchio," I tell him, and I shake
    my hand loose from his, move it to his back and trace the scar. 
    
    The Scar. 
    
    The scar where the real Ray Vecchio aimed for the crazy chick and shot
    Fraser instead. If he loved Fraser even half how much I love Fraser,
    he probably felt like emptying the next chamber into his own head when
    he did that. 
    
    I would.
    
    "It's a weak man who doesn't learn from his mistakes," he says, arching
    into my hand. 
    
    "You're not weak." I can't believe he needs me to tell him that, but
    maybe he does. "You're just like the rest of us -- every once in a while
    your heart heads out without talking to your brain first, that's all."
    
    I keep rubbing his back, sliding my fingers up and down the dent in the
    middle of his spine. I can feel the ridge of scar there, raised up under
    my fingers. He never talks about it. Never. I wonder if he thinks about
    it much. 
    
    He's got his eyes closed, and his hand's resting on my side now, the
    fingers flexing there, kneading, like a cat making biscuits. I'd like
    to fix him all up, just by touching him, just by talking to him. I would
    if I could. I'd make it all right for him, inside and out. 
    
    "Hey, Fraser," I say, quiet, in case he's thinking about dozing off.
    
    "Hmmm?" he answers.
    
    "How come you're so easy on other people, and so hard on yourself?" I
    ask him. 
    
    His eyes open wide. Even though it's pretty dark, I can see I surprised
    him with that one. Good. Maybe I'll jolt something out of him. He's quiet
    for a minute, then he wets his lips and says, "I don't know." 
    
    "Something you might think about, okay?" I say, spreading my hand wide
    on his back, bringing us closer together. "Next time that Mountie mind
    of yours is looking around for something to work on, work on that." 
    
    He stretches his legs out, lets me come right up against him. He smells
    like himself again, and his skin's still a little damp from all the hot
    water. 
    
    "All right, Ray," he says, nuzzling under my chin, licking my Adam's
    apple. 
    
    God, I really do love those three words. Wonder what else I could ask
    him for, now that he's feeling all compliant? 
    
    Under his (*my*) boxers, I can feel him starting to stir, and his hand's
    moving down my side, over my hip, down in between us, where I'm starting
    to stir a little myself. 
    
    "What happened to 'the flesh is weak'?" I ask.
    
    "I seem to have experienced a remarkable recovery," he says, then blows
    it by trying to push me on my back. I can feel his back muscles protesting
    under my hand even before he flinches. 
    
    "All that means is you're thinking with the wrong head," I tell him,
    guiding him over onto his back again. He's worse off than me, but I think
    we can make this work. 
    
    "You may be right," he says, grimacing, but he's making quite a little
    pup-tent in those boxers anyhow. 
    
    I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down on him. "You really want
    to...?" and he nods. Uh-oh. Looks like he's going to get embarrassed
    if I don't do something quick. 
    
    "Okay, okay, just... don't move. Let me do it," I tell him, and going
    with the idea that fast and painful is better than slow and painful,
    I lever myself over and drop down on him, trying not to mash him. 
    
    "That hurt?" I ask him, when I think I'm where I need to be.
    
    "No, you feel... you feel good," he says, and he's got both arms around
    me now, pulling me down the last couple of inches until we're stuck together,
    shoulders to toes. 
    
    I can feel him, trapped under the boxers, rubbing against me. I line
    us up, wishing I'd thought ahead enough to take them off him, but it's
    too late now. He's already moving me on him,  and since he's rocking
    me from side to side instead of back to front, it doesn't hurt a bit.
    Damn, he's a smart guy. He's got his hands on my hips, sliding me back
    and forth and we're starting to get the cotton damp, starting to sweat
    each other up a little. 
    
    I get his face in my hands and lay one on him, deep and hard. He's ready,
    open, taking me in, licking the roof of my mouth and under my tongue.
    We've gotten really good at this. Should have; we've practiced enough.
    I'm sure somewhere there are people who like to kiss with their mouths
    closed, who don't like getting the corners of their mouths licked, but
    I'm not one, and Fraser's not one. Maybe we went about this the whole
    wrong way -- who needs Advil when you can kiss it and make it better?
    
    He's making those noises I like under his breath, up into my mouth, and
    his hands are holding stronger on my hips, making me do what he wants,
    move how he wants. It's not like we need to drag this out, so I let him
    rub as hard as he wants, let go of his mouth so he can breathe, and then
    he's groaning, and between us, I can feel him soaking his boxers. While
    he's still jerking, I go for it, lunge on him enough to make my own back
    protest, but I don't care, and then I'm adding to the mess we're making
    on his stomach. 
    
    The whole thing probably took about two minutes. I'm starting to think
    there are some real advantages to being with another guy. You want to
    get off? You get off. No fuss, no muss. No foreplay? No problem. 
    
    I push myself off him, drop back beside him, and he reaches out, puts
    his hand on my chest. Touch is good. We can keep doing touch. I grab
    the edge of the sheet and wipe him off. So we'll do laundry tomorrow.
    I'm *not* getting up again tonight. 
    
    He sighs next to me; takes a deep breath and lets it out.
    
    "Didn't hurt you, did I?" I ask. It always seems like a good idea before
    you do it, what with all those dolphins running around in your system,
    but sometimes afterward, you go, 'What were we *thinking*?' 
    
    He smiles, this great, drowsy smile, and says, "No, not a bit."
    
    Well, good. Wouldn't want to add to his woes. 
    
    I'm back to staring at the ceiling again, but it feels better this time.
    Given how relaxed he is beside me, I think he's feeling better, too.
    
    He deserves it. He really put himself out there today, for somebody who
    didn't care much about anybody but herself. Most of us are like that,
    most of the time, but not Fraser. Of course, Fraser's not like most of
    us. Fraser's the exception to most rules. 
    
    Yeah, he's *my* exception. I'll bend over, twist up, and break for him,
    if he wants. I'll jump through windows, drop through ceilings and hang
    the moon for him if he wants. I'm sure he knows that, I think he does,
    but I guess it doesn't hurt to hear it more than once. 
    
    "You still awake?" I whisper.
    
    "Mmmm hmmm," he rumbles.
    
    "I've got just one more thing to say," I tell him, moving so my head's
    next to his on the pillow. 
    
    "What's that?" he says, sliding his arm around my shoulders.
    
    "I love you, Fraser," I say, whisper it in his ear. Feels good saying
    it, easy. Easier than I thought it might be. 
    
    "And I you, Ray," he says right back.
    
    I feel the last tidbit of green man jealousy melt away. We did our duty.
    Helped the damsel in distress, got the bad guy, and came out of it okay.
    Banged up a little, maybe, but we're together, here, and happy. 
    
    Maybe now we can get some sleep.
    
    ***************************************
    
    The end.
    


End file.
